


A case of you

by frozenpapers



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Writer AU, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenpapers/pseuds/frozenpapers
Summary: Elsa's like the weather. Capricious. Cold. Warm.Like winter, he concludes.Like summer, he writes.





	1. prologue.

He swings the door of the cafe with the gentleness of the cloud. Behind him, bells fall into a short symphony to announce his arrival as though he's of blue blood. For a moment, he's under the scrutiny of various eyes, each glistening with a small amount of curiosity before fading. They turn back to their respective duties, either hunched over thick books or chin raised, shoulders slumped as they converse with their comrades. It's a typical Tuesday, and there's not much to do, already having finished a meeting with his agent, and the publishing company that's held him dear for quite some time now. He strides inside, steps calculated and long, as he crosses table after table before settling by the corner where he's usually found most times. He sets down his bag, and arranges the table and the chairs to his liking. Then, he's off to the counter.

She's not particularly new, but she's an unfamiliar soul behind the counter. She's the owner, but never has she once ever thought of making an appearance, except until now when they'd fallen short of staff after learning that Kristoff wouldn't be able to make his shift. She's not at all bothered by this; in fact, it gives her something to do. Calculations for this month's budget has been well over done, and there's not much of her books to read, having finished them all in the duration of the storm that's made a home in California for a few weeks. She's stuck here, and her sister didn't have to beg to have her to finally show up to embrace the ambiance, or so Anna has put it often times.

She checks inventory before she flicks her single braid off her shoulder and decides to man the cash register. From behind her, Anna babbles about a recent book she's read, carefully going through moments that had made her heart beat in quite a frenzy. She then turns the page, and diverts towards her usual wistful sigh, and a dreamy look she casts off the ceiling.

Elsa simply shakes her head as she waits for a customer to come forth.

"I wonder when I'd meet..."

And that's when she tunes her sister out once more, and wonders if Kristoff's efforts have been all in vain.

He walks towards the counter like a man with a purpose, eyes anywhere but the chalkboard menu hanging above head and plastered on the brick wall. Despite knowing what he already wants, he lets his eyes linger on the cupcakes that sit next to the tip box; licks his slightly chapped lips before focusing on the woman in a red flannel and a brown apron draped at her front. He wonders who she is, but before he can ask, she says something, and it takes him time to process what she's just stated. It's only when she repeats it that he comes back to earth and meets her sapphirine gaze with his. He smiles, but his eyes are hazed, already thinking of tucking her in and molding her into a character to play at his words.

"An iced Americano. Large."

She bites her tongue, and forces a correction down her throat. Upon observation, it seems as though he does this on purpose for a source of a short lived entertainment. She doesn't want to be that spectacle, so she punches the code instead.

"And that cupcake."

She follows his gaze, doing a mental note to grab for the chocolate one at the top.

"Your name?"

She speaks, a small rise of her eyebrow aimed towards him. She has the cup in the other hand and the pen on the other; the tip settles on cardboard and she waits patiently.

"Hans,"

she briefly wonders if he's a writer, but before she can, Anna pipes the question herself. He chuckles softly, and she asks for three dollars and twenty-five cents.

 


	2. first.

Anna devotes her time in prattles and pesters often aimed at the writer whose hair resembles flames, and Kristoff tries to seem blind and deaf. Elsa on the other hand, watches from a distance, and wonders when he'd ever educate her about the rather intense feelings he has for her. She wants to intervene, but she stays quiet, and buries her nose into the mountain of paperwork. She devotes her time to actual working, and tunes out their individual noises in her own corner of the café. It's become routine ever since he's stepped right into the store, and Elsa finds herself that she doesn't mind. Holidays always professed boredom even with a handful of responsibilities; entertainment is never a thirst that's ever quenched with normalcy. Regulars gossiped, but it's not as colorful for her to listen in on. It's a guilty pleasure, one she's hidden, but not enough to be ashamed of.

 

She tends to her responsibilities, and later learns that Hans with hair aflame is a writer, and a possible close relative to the Westergards. She remembers them well---thirteen brothers, quite high born. There had been a number of scandals, one she doesn't venture on even with the significant information she's learned from an aunt when she and Anna had been children. Behind the counter, her sister finishes her description by using the adjective mysterious to fit the man perfectly. Elsa notes Kristoff's  glare towards an innocent croissant underneath the incandescence of a small fluorescent light. She pities him, and the thought of intervening comes quick again. She swallows, and secures the apron around her waist.

 

A small giggle passes her sister's lips, one that's allowed her to roll her eyes heaven-ward, and share a knowing look with the blond from across the room. She lifts her shoulders in a shrug before she mans the counter, and lets the manic of Monday swallow the once ambiant atmosphere. It's something she's grown to be fond of, despite having only done it a week ago. She likes to keep her hands busy, and likes to take note of  what goes on within the place she owns. She likes improvements; Elsa believes they're better thought of when observation's involved.

 

The bell jingles, and the hinges sing as they welcome customers into the hearth. The holidays have always reduced their sales as most of the people who come in on a daily basis were students. For now, it's business men, soccer moms, and graduate students who's found fondness in taking up courses in the duration of a break. Elsa doesn't mind the reduction. It's more a blessing than of a curse; usually, Arendelle is overflowed, and understaffed. This musing reminds Elsa that she needs to hire a few people to permanently help out. Anna's only here for a few days before she returns for her the rest of her sophomore year in college, and she very well knows that the two of them---Kristoff and her---wouldn't do as much. Inventory and stocks call for her attention, and she knows leaving him all by himself behind the cash register to be with espresso machines, and various apparatus isn't wise.

 

"Hey, Elsa." A giddy, and familiar voice wakes her from her musings, and her cerulean eyes land on the small man on the other side of the counter. She gives him a genuine smile as she brings herself back to the world of the living, internally chiding herself for lapsing.

 

"Hey, Olaf. You look pretty cheerful today." She remarks as she rests a jutted hip on the edge of the mahogany. Elsa's briefly reminded of the time when Kristoff berated Anna for leaving a spill on the long table inside. Mahogany. It's mahogany. She suppresses a small smile.

 

His fingers clutch the handle of the briefcase absentmindedly, glancing at her with wide hazel eyes filled with laughter. "My son got a call back from the school play he's been eye-ing." He supplies as an answer, glancing wistfully at the chalkboard then back at her.

 

"You must be very proud." She states, wondering if there are more working parents who can say the same. Usually, it's just orders, scowls, and no smalltalk. A smile is a rare tip to be offered, especially in the mornings. "The usual?"

 

"Well," he pauses, sticking a tongue out as he lets his eyes trail over at the menu above. He blinks, tilts his head, then rubs his chin with a thumb and a forefinger before coming up with something. "Surprise me."

 

"Alright then," she concludes as she punches a code and watches the man walk back to his table to settle.

 

The morning goes by like a breeze, and before she knows it, she's already done half of the afternoon. The harsh sunlight fades into dust, clouded glowers slanting against large windows, and spilling into the expanse of the café. Elsa unties her apron and folds it neatly, setting it aside on a box beneath the inner counter. Her braid goes behind her, a trickle of a tame platinum stream that sways whenever she moves. She does nothing to tighten it, instead taps Anna's shoulder and tells her that she's in dire need of a break. Kristoff shoots her a pleading look, in which she returns with an apologetic smile before heading south and disappearing from behind glass double doors.

 

The vibrancy of the afternoon welcomes her, the warmth from the once scorching sun's far from what she's imagined. She's thought of it to have died, and she learns now that it really hasn't. She sits by the bench she's recently added to the exterior a month ago; her legs are slightly parted as both elbows rest just above her knees. She stays like this for a moment with blank thoughts within her, listening in on the noises the city has provided. It's a trance she's always in, a deconstruction of whatever tension that's formed on her shoulders. She's learned that from a book---or maybe from Oprah, she doesn't quite remember. It's been helping her, but not so much when dealing with a pack of cigarettes that's nestled in her jacket pocket. She's not proud of it, and she's long kept it a secret; she tends to keep it that way though, until she's finally clean of the vice she knows she'd pay for if she continues the charade.

 

That's a thought for later, though.

 

Elsa takes the crisp packaging from her pocket, mentally counting how many sticks had she already lit for this day. She comes up with two, and she figures that's not even close to bad, and it's close as if she didn't. She knows that's a stupid way to justify this, but she still convinces herself that way, and has no plans of tossing the insulting box of cigarettes away. She feels like that little girl with the match sticks, only difference is that she's selling reason to herself, and it's not as harmless as a box of matches.

 

Whatever, she mutters to herself as she finally---finally lights one and places it between her lips for a drag. It's like a breath of fresh air, but that's an ironic comparison. Like a thirteen year old boy, she hides her vice from plain sight as she stands up and repositions herself on the corner where the building ends. She leans on the wall, leg over the other and knee bent quite so. Her eyes are pinned towards the traffic, and the people that bustle around it on a Monday.

 

-

 

He's woken up on the chair he's slept on, his computer screen and a frenzy of words the face he opens his eyes to. From beside him, the long, digital clock tells him that he's missed more than half of his day already. There's a crick on the slant of his neck, and a pool of sweat gathered at the base of his spine. His body protests when he straightens himself, and he tosses a wistful glance over his made bed. It's inviting him, but he knows that the world's waiting for him to do something productive even at this time of the day. He also remembers the meeting he has on five and almost jumps out of the swivel chair to rush towards the bathroom. He reminds himself not to stay up so late even though he knows that'd be a reminder forgotten and if not, a command disobeyed. So instead, he takes his phone out of his pocket, and slides it open to punch a series of alarms to wake him up earlier than he tends to rise. He tells himself it's for his own good, and also uses this reason as he turns off the heater for a cold shower. He needs to fully wake up, and he's read it somewhere that it's good for the nerves. The spray hits him directly against the length of his back, and he curses.

 

He grabs a granola bar after, teeth chattering as he crosses the distance of his room with his towel hung low around his waist to look for clothes. He ends up with a white shirt, and a pair of dark blue jeans; by the time he finishes his snack, his feet are already slipped in his boat shoes. Hans checks his smartphone for a text, and he sees one from his agent asking him where he is, and telling him that there's something he needs to run him through right after the meeting. He licks his lips absentmindedly and takes a book to go in his satchel plus a notebook with a pen he tucks in the pocket of his sports jacket that's hung by the door. He knows it must be scorching outside, but he also knows that it's a formal meeting he's going to. The creme tint reminds him of Miami Vice, but he dons it anyway and calls for an Uber.

 

The meeting goes well, and his agent tells him that another publishing company is interested then there's the interview from a local news channel. He tells Oaken he'd consider the other, and declines the offer of an interview. He's not smug, but Hans doesn't like the spotlight, at least not yet when there's still something to dig from his past. It's kind of ironic, considering he's already published and best-selling. He figures he just doesn't want his brothers to get word faster since television or any kind of publicity does that. Oaken, of course, understands, having known the man in the wake of the starkness he's avoided saying alongside the decline.

 

By the time he graces the street where the café he's seemed to regular in, it's five after six, and coincidentally the blonde's---Elsa's break. He crosses the street with a stride and verdant eyes watchful of any incoming cars. The city's quiet at this time of the day, something that resembles of a town getting closer to abandonment. Of course, he knows that not to be true as he's witnessed how cruel it usually is in the mornings, and the evenings.

 

Elsa's cigarette's almost burned out by the time she lifts her eyes off her doll shoes and to the movement she's caught on her periphery. Her eyes land on the writer, and for a moment, she wants to flee, but she's reminded that his conversation with her sister is usually out of politeness than of interest. She relaxes a little, but her shoulders are still tense when she feels his eyes on her. There's a pause from his part, a few inches away feom the sidewalk, and if he doesn't get off that side, she knows he'd get run over. She wants to tell him this, but she's cut off when he parts his lips to speak and closes it again as if he's lost words to say. It's ridiculous, considering they haven't spoken except for the time when she's fought off a correction that's bound to slip past her lips. He owes her nothing, and she knows she doesn't owe him anything as well. But, she reasons, she's always been kind to her customers even when she's caught in a compromising situation.

 

"Hi," she tosses off and smiles softly before covering it with a cigarette butt to take one last drag.

 

He watches her whistle out smoke with quite a surprise he's masked successfully. He hasn't attached this kind of vice to her character, if there's be anything he thinks suitable, it'd be drinking, but not too much of it. He then reminds himself that this isn't one of his characters, and that she's a real person as much as he is. He also reminds himself that he's been staring at her for too long, and mentally chides himself for being quite obvious.

 

"Hello," he exchanges with a polite smile and wonders if she'd be serving him today, or if she'll spend her time in her corner with stacks of papers. Whatever she'd do, he knows it's not his business, but he carefully tucks in what he's seen earlier underneath the fictional name he's provided her with. It's a flaw he's quite excited to venture on since he's always seen her as a Mary Sue.

 

"You have to try one of our specials this Halloween." She says right after the silence, and he's realized he's been standing past the sidewalk far too long. It's a good thing the city's quiet or else he'd have to face a lawsuit or he'd have to spend trick or treating in white walls. 

 

"Going anywhere special tonight, though? We've got quite a thing going on to end the night. We'll be setting up a white cloth and a projector to watch a few horror films till closing. It's not much, but we also have an open mic for those who'd like to share a scary story. It's like a camp fire kind of thing, and we'd be handing out some s'mores." She knows she's babbling, and she doesn't know why she has done it. Perhaps, she reasons, it's been done to tell a new soul of their tradition so as to not elicit any confusion. After all, she's quite the accommodating owner, and it's not like he wouldn't hear the same thing from Anna and Kristoff---more or less, from the precedent. So, she goes with that and hopes he'd take it as a cue to go.

 

She feels quite uncomfortable with what she's found out about him. He's a writer, and most write about what they see or they conjure up stories about it. She doesn't want to become a subject or maybe she just doesn't want to be judged by a stranger. Either way, she's grateful when he walks inside with a simple, sounds like fun; I'll make sure to stick around.

 

She comes back inside a few minutes after he does, and she's welcomed by the disapproving look Kristoff sends her in an appeal towards where Anna is now. The cash register's been abandoned, he's trying to deal with the absence despite having no one lining up the café. She crosses the distance between the door, and the counter. She feels his gaze on her, but she thinks maybe she's just self-conscious after being caught smoking.  She takes out a hand sanitizer from her purse and squeezes a healthy amount on her palms to rid off the scent. After, she takes out a moisturizer just in case.

 

"You should fire her, you know." Kristoff pipes up as he hands her the apron she's left sitting on the lone stool.

 

She side-eyes her best friend, and arches a brow, an amused smirk on her features. "She's my sister and if I do, she's going to have a lot of time doing just that." She looks pointedly at the redhead with twin braids resting on her shoulders, who's then settled in the empty chair across Hans unabashed.

 

Kristoff grimaces, and she gives his shoulder a comforting pat. "But doesn't that warrant any punishment?"

 

"Unless you want to spend the rest of your life with Sven, then I suggest you tell her sooner." She says, ignoring what he's suggesting.

 

Kristoff makes a noise of disgruntlement and she swallows a small laugh.

 

She met him in college. They shared the same course, and had more than enough classes together, but never really spoke. They were strangers with no interests of building a friendship unless forced, until the campus had made a mistake and had encoded Kristoff as a Kirsten (the mistake's still questionable to this date), enlisting him as her new roommate. They've filed a report, of course, as Elsa was never looking for a roommate to begin with. But, with how sluggish the management was and how there were more serious matters to deal with, they had no choice but to live with each other until the semester ends. They passed strangers to acquaintances to friends and by the time the semester ended, they were inseparable.

 

They shared the same interests, and had the same opinions about certain things. At one point they considered dating, but it never really worked out.  It was great sex, but they both knew they were better off as friends. It didn't stain their friendship, if anything, it strengthened it. College was easier because of it, and so did the future that came after graduation.  They'd agreed on opening a café if none of them would be hired right after a year, or if they had fallen out of luck with their current jobs. Both Kristoff and Elsa were hired right after. She managed a small art gallery while he did stocks for an Italian restaurant, and by the end of the year, realized that this wasn't what they wanted. Elsa wanted to do interior and exterior design, and much more than sitting behind a computer screen all morning. Kristoff wanted to own something of his and at the same time work for himself. They quit their jobs, and had picked up what they'd initially planned out when they were a year younger. Arendelle was born, and though it seemed as though she owned it more than he did, it was both their idea and they were more than happy to see it blossom.

 

"You've got your costume ready?" Kristoff nudges Elsa out of her trance as she finishes tying her arpon.

 

She turns to face him, still distracted with having it end with a ribbon, eyes half lidded though pinned against him. "Yeah. Though I know I'd look like half of the women there since, you know, I'm Harley Quinn." She remarks with a roll of her eyes, huffing a little. "I want to go as Daenerys."

 

"And you want me to forgo Deathstroke for Jon Snow because?" He asks with his eyebrow arched, but she already knows she has him with her. He does this for the ice cream that'd be on her right after.

 

"Oh, you already know." She says with narrowed eyes.

 

He feigns a look of bafflement and simply shrugs his shoulders as if to say he doesn't know what she's talking about.

 

"Ice cream is on me." She all but whines as she moves to her place behind the counter and the cash register.

 

"You're such an angel."

 

"Shut up," she quips and fights off a smile.

 

He checks inventory, and she watches Hans extract himself from Anna and walk towards her. It's then she realizes that he hasn't ordered anything yet.

 

"Hello, welcome to Arendelle. What would it be for today?" She asks him pleasantly as she notes how much Kristoff's fighting off the urge to glare at the other.

 

He purses his lips in thought as he goes through the pastries. He decides that he needs to forgo coffee, but before he can say he wants a venti of that green tea, he blurts out a large iced americano and a strawberry shortcake to go with it.

 

"Hans, is it?" She asks him when he doesn't supply her his name after asking him.

 

He blinks as he shakes off the trance he's in. He's been trying figure out whatever connection she has with the hefty blond she was previously conversing with about costumes. "Yeah."

 

"Alright. That'd be four dollars and fifty cents." She tells him with a smile reserved for her customers.

 

He gives her five dollars and tells her to keep the change, she's about to say that there's a tip box beside him, but she stops herself short and accepts the cash instead.

 

He's about to turn on his heel, but doesn't, instead scratches his head in what appears to be awkwardness. "Can I have a list of the films for later?"

 

The smile's still on her face as she tenders the money and hands him the receipt. "I'm sorry, but that'd be a surprise."

 

He smiles, and she tells him he'd enjoy it regardless, and hopes to feel the Halloween spirit despite the lack of spookiness around the area.

 

When the afternoon fades into evening, Elsa welcomes her cousin, Rapunzel and her husband, Eugene into the café as the Mother of Dragons. They exchange a few pleasantries before she compliments the simple costume they've worn just for the sake of honoring Halloween. Rapunzel hugs her, and Eugene squeezes her shoulder after she's released. She came in a pink gown and a tiara, and he seems as though he prefers to wear clothes of a commoner. The tiara ends in his hands a second after they converse, and they walk towards Anna who hands them their aprons. Kristoff and Elsa say their farewell, and she swears she felt the writer's eyes on her before they left.

 

 


End file.
